It Is Enough
by Ruth Daigon
It is enough to lean against
the fabric of your flesh.
It is enough to lie in the domestic morning.
It is enough to watch light
expanding through windows,
rising and falling between our bodies
on this bed, in this room, over this continent.
We grow wise watching leaky faucets,
faded wallpaper, mismatched socks.
The coffee boiling on the stove
prepares us for the network news,
shopping malls, miracle cures,
and tomorrow always sitting on our bed.
But in this rush of years,
we have not lost the imagined past,
the here-it-is, the pitch,
the pinnacle of time shining
from within a million summers
infused with music.
We invent a lifetime out of small things,
free the air between our fingers,
diagram the stars, dream them
into daylight, and admit the future:
it is here, always here,
and the clock runs forever.
Copyright © 2002 by Ruth Daigon. This poem appeared
in the collection Handfuls of Time, Small Poetry Press, Select Poet